Autopsy

This is what happens when blade meets flesh? When your insides breathe more air than you... Lately I've lost muse to write, love to praise and words of hope, Instead my pen is but a riotous menace, Bringing nothing but sirens and horses, With no compassion nor sentimence..... So I've been reciting the nicene Creed every morning, Hail Mary every evening And holy Communion on Sundays I need a fresh start, An autopsy.... To reveal the cause of this pale heart, This must be what happens when the blade meets flesh, But I'm a man of flight, So I've been crafting odes in my dreams of which I never find time to write, This is beyond sorcery What hobby is this? Of which it beeseches my intellects deepest chambers and still sings of free will, Enslaved by the chains I create with my wrist.